


Denial

by editorbit



Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [21]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, One Shot, Post-Laughing Toxin Jeremiah Valeska, Soft Jerome Valeska, ft. strawberry jam, jeremiah likes jam what can I say, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: Jerome follows him everywhere.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514969
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Denial

Jerome follows him everywhere. Wherever Jeremiah may go - which, considering the circumstances, isn’t very far nor wide - Jerome follows him. Wrapped around his brother’s little finger is Arkham Asylum. If Jerome wants to follow him, he can. Though, if it is because he wants to, just because he can or simply out of spite, Jeremiah doesn’t know. Perhaps a mixture of them all. Either way, Jeremiah despises it. Every second, every minute, every hour. 

The whole ordeal starts off in the morning, during breakfast time in the cafeteria. One step into the room and Jeremiah will spot him. Sometimes he sits with his friends, friends Jeremiah hasn’t bothered to learn the names of. He couldn’t care less about those empty-headed lunatics even if he tried. Because that’s what all of these people are at the end of the day. Lunatics. Jeremiah sticks out like a sore thumb being the only individual of intelligence in this building. The only individual with goals and plans rather than mere emotions and mental issues. If anything he shouldn’t even be in here. In here with them. 

Other times Jerome sits at his table - Jeremiah’s table. It’s an unspoken rule, one not implemented by Jeremiah himself. No one sits at this table other than Jeremiah - and Jerome obviously as no rules apply to Jerome. The consequences are yet unknown, but, considering the table is never occupied, highly affective. Jeremiah has no option but to sit with him. A tray awaits him with his favourites - or perhaps what he dislikes the least - and he’s met with a smile and an overly happy "good morning". If Jerome happens to not be seated at his table, to his utmost relief, he’s never too far away. Before Jeremiah can finish his meal, he’s sitting right across from him, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. 

Ever so slightly frozen bread with strawberry jam, along with a glass of lukewarm milk sit before him on his tray on this particular morning. It’s a morning like any other. The meal before him is not of the tastiest, but he doesn’t quite trust the meat they serve, nor does he believe the water is entirely clean. If the water in his maze hadn’t been clean enough, he assumes the water here can’t be much better. Better safe than sorry. "Remember the strawberry field?" The words are uttered right into his ear. Jeremiah watches him stroll around the table to sit across from him. Eyes now much unlike his own bore into him.

A permanent fog enfolds Jeremiah’s mind. All the memories lie hidden within it, scattered about in the corners of his mind. It’s only when he gets closer to them he can see them, remember them, though only with a bit of help. Then they start playing before him like films. Old films. The fog seemingly disappears, although when Jeremiah moves away, the fog once again returns. It never disappears, merely becomes invisible when close enough. It’s just an illusion. 

Jeremiah remembers. The sweet scent hits his nostrils, the sound of children’s laughter flows through his ears and the sweet taste of strawberries lingers on his tongue. It had been no strawberry field he realises, looking back on it, merely some bushes in someone’s backyard on the outskirts of another city on their never ending journey. To little Jeremiah it had seemed like the biggest of strawberry fields, bathing in the sunlight. Jeremiah can remember the feeling of excitement running through him, almost like a gas. He remembers picking berry after berry for what felt like hours. Jeremiah had carried most of them in his shirt, while the rest he carried in his free hand. All the way to Mr. Cicero’s trailer, hands stained pink. The memory of bread with homemade strawberry jam disappears into the fog. 

Jerome’s gaze shifts ever so slightly from side to side, seemingly searching for something. Eyes are the windows to the soul and Jerome is looking right in. "You don’t, do you." His brother seems to have found what he was looking for. Jeremiah lets his gaze fall to the untouched meal in front of him, breaking eye contact. "Remember that day, Jeremiah?" The fog inside his mind once again seemingly disappears, more and more. "Stop it." The words leave his lips subconsciously. 

"Our birthday had been a month away on the dot," Jerome begins and Jeremiah occupies himself with the glass of milk as Jerome speaks. "You were counting. Dear mother kicked us out of the trailer, obviously, and we were on our own. On our own in a new world, you said." Jerome makes an almost amused noise. "Your imagination has always fascinated me. All the stories you could come up with just like that, and everyone believed them. Even you." Jerome’s voice seemingly disappears, but then it’s right back, right in his ear. "Remember the strawberries, Jeremiah? The strawberries at the grocery store. Call it what you want, you still stole them. We stole them. Together." Jerome’s words clear the fog, more and more and Jeremiah tries to stop it. It’s like trying to catch the air around him in his hands. Impossible. 

Jeremiah is escorted out of the cafeteria with pieces of glass sticking out of his palm. The blood stains his skin like the juice of berries. The pain throbs beneath the stains like a heartbeat and leaves his mind occupied. Lies leave his lips when asked about the pain.

The ordeal then continues into the day. Jerome might lie on the table Jeremiah sits at, eyes closed and hands folded under his head. Jeremiah will sit and watch him. He watches how his chest rises and falls with every inhale and exhale. He watches the peaceful, almost innocent expression on his face, ruined only by the permanent smile he bears. Jeremiah is brought back to their youth when that unblemished, perfect face - one just like his own - bore nothing but genuine smiles. Jeremiah hasn’t seen one of those on his brother’s face in years. Something always stirs within him at the thought and he looks away, occupies himself. Jerome doesn’t smile genuine smiles like he does.  
He watches his brother as his lips part and words Jeremiah isn’t listening to leave his lips. He merely watches his lips moving with every syllable. It keeps his mind distracted he finds. The memories don’t trigger as easily if he’s really focused on something. They linger in the fog, right there but still out of sight. More and more he has to focus as the days go by. 

Lying here on his bed, room silent and air dark and empty around him, he would think this is when peace and quiet would be let in. Physically he would be right, but in his mind a war breaks out as soon as silence takes over. Memories hiding in the corners of his mind gain confidence and persistence. Memories are pushed forward into the light by an invisible force. Memories he desperately hides away in his fog. False memories altered over time, long since changed. Childish memories of his past, one he denies and hides away, yet can’t alter any longer. An invisible force within the fog not of his own doing. 

"Don’t fight it." 

Right by his bed, face mere centimetres away from his own, breath warm against his skin and voice hushed yet persistent, stands Jerome. He doesn’t stand there for long, soon slipping under the covers with him. Jerome lies right by him on his side and stares into him with those eyes, eyes he once had. An arm slips around his waist and Jerome feels warm and familiar, yet distant. Jeremiah runs his fingers across Jerome’s skin. It’s scarred and irritated and feels rough beneath his fingers, contrary to his own smooth, scar-free skin. 

"Stop it." Jeremiah’s voice is weak and tired. "Don’t." 

Jerome pulls him in close and the kiss pressed to his forehead feels warm and real, not to mention caring. Memories of nights just like this one press their way into the light and Jeremiah does nothing to stop them. He lets Jerome’s warm breath blow the fog away and Jeremiah feels it disappear, actually disappear this time. Jerome’s lips feel soft against his forehead and he falls asleep to the feeling still lingering there. 

Jerome stops following him.


End file.
